A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

Incontrovertible and Hermetic Rules of Modern Life, #82

If Shannon Tweed is one of the actors toplining a (most likely) straight to video movie, she will be in lingerie on the box cover art.

To wit, Power Play, which combines the equally awesome visual elements of underwear and firearms:

Another childhood mystery solved

The Wife is out of town, and She Who Shall Not Be Named has fallen victim to that plague of the Vonder Haar family called strep throat. She goes to bed pretty easily thanks to Mr. Motrin, so I've been enjoying rare unfettered access to the TV which, for some reason, I utilized by watching the laughable 1976 sci-fi "classic," At the Earth's Core.

For those mercifully unfamiliar, ATEC stars Doug McClure (you may know him from such films as Warlords of Atlantis and Satan's Triangle) and Peter Cushing as adventurers who discover the subterranean world of Pellucidar, inhabited by telepathic flying reptiles called Mahar, giant bipedal rhino-beasts, fire-breathing lizards, and cave folk. I saw it in the theater during its initial release with my dad, who vetoed the other genre offering, Godzilla vs. Megalon, because we were boycotting Japanese goods thanks to their whaling practices (seriously). I only had hazy memories of the movie, but luckily I'd off-handedly recorded it many months ago. Falling victim to the lack of higher brain function caused by tending a sick child for several days, I decided to watch it.

It's pretty bad, even by pre-Star Wars special effects standards. Guys in Suits play the Mahar and rhino dudes, McClure is as tumescent as ever, and the whole thing looks like it was shot on one of the Tom Baker era Doctor Who sets. Surely Dad must have regretted his choice of films?

Yeah. Did I mention the cave folk? And the fact that "Princess Dia" was played by none other than English pin-up queen Caroline Munro?

Your motives are clear to me now, old man. Though I...can't say I disapprove.

Fun fact: Munro played the buttoned-up reporter Adam Ant successfully "liberates" in the "Goody Two Shoes" video.

"Mr. Simpson, under Nevada law, bigamy - or "Mormon hold 'em" - is perfectly legal."

We have a cleaning lady who comes over to the house every two weeks. Now, before you start lobbing any bourgeois cracks, I will say that - before certain other circumstances arose - the tidying up of our house was the only real source of conflict. As in, a certain member of this matrimonial union (the one who doesn't have a blog) rarely did any.

Of course, like everyone else who's too chincy to pay for it on a weekly basis, we spend a decent chunk of time the night before "pre-cleaning," a practice so stupid I could barely put it into words:

Pete [sweeping the kitchen floor]: Why the fuck am I doing this when the maid is coming tomorrow? This is material for a bad stand-up routine.
The Wife: We need to become Mormons.
Pete: Buh?
The Wife : So we can get another wife.
Pete: That's not the LDS, it's the FLDS, and you...you really wouldn't have a problem with this?
The Wife: Oh, she'd just be doing the cleaning. But yeah, I'd give up Diet Coke for that.
Pete: That would be pretty sweet. I'm not wearing a tie, though.

And you'll pry Central Market's Kauai blend from my cold, dead hands.

Vegas '07 - Part IV

"People of the world"

Certain jokes have a way of spiraling horribly out of control, mutating beyond their humble origins and, in the process, ceasing to be humorous at all. Case in point: Tyra Banks' talk show. Or, more on topic, my long-standing "love affair" with the Spice Girls.

When they first hit the scene back in '96, Just about everyone in the explored universe immediately recognized them as a Lou Pearlman-esque conglomeration of simplistic archetypes, only without even the former Backstreet Boys manager's remedial subtlety. Oh, and with ovaries. They were given monikers like "Posh," "Baby," and "Ginger" to help us all tell them apart (in case you didn't realize one was a fashionista, one a schoolgirl fetish object, and one a redhead). Their songs were intermittently catchy trifles, remembered less for their orchestration than for the singers' propensity for spandex and Wonderbras.

Then they became successful, which shouldn't have surprised anyone. We're a culture that can't get enough coverage of coke-addled hotel heiresses and "reality" programming that would make P.T. Barnum hang his head in shame. Given that, what's another flash in the pan pop group with marginal talent backed by an aggressive marketing campaign? How about that famous cross-demographic appeal, for starters? Girls, young ones at least, were drawn in by the easily identifiable characters and the laughable calls to "Girl Power." Parents - mothers, mostly - could take comfort in the Girls' relatively wholesome image; "Say You'll Be There" was the group's most risque video, featuring some mild midriff baring and a couple of shirtless guys (put that up against Christina Aguilera's "Dirrrty" or a pole dancing Britney). As for the men...well, we all have our weaknesses:

She's a little too angular for me these days, but more on that later.

When Spice World the movie came out, it was time for all the "real fans" to put up or shut up. At this point, I probably could've bowed out graciously. My interest in the group was half unapologetic ogling of Ms. Halliwell and half snickering at my cleverness in publicly extolling a group the 25-year old me wouldn't have used his Replacements t-shirt to put out if they spontaneously combusted. Of course, I never laid claim to much in the brains department.

To that end, and (mostly) unironically, TTTWLAM and I were there opening weekend. We were easily the only heterosexual dudes in the audience who didn't have the convenient explanation of children dragging us along to justify our presence (an occurrence with eerie parallels to our recent travels). For all that, the movie was largely inoffensive. Modeled on A Hard Day's Night but executing more like Night of the Living Dead 3D, there were no pretensions to art. Indeed, the Girls exhibited a glimpse of self-awareness, elevating the film over similar efforts by the likes of Mariah Carey or Hillary Duff.

Fast forward to 2007. I was, of course, keenly aware of plans for the Spice Girls reunion, even if the initial list of remote venues seemed like it would afford me an easy excuse for skipping out. Then TTTWLAM got engaged, and all bets were off. That about brings us up to date.

"Say Mandalay! Say Mandalay!"

The show(s) - they played three nights in Vegas) were scheduled at the Mandalay Bay Events Center. This would comprise our one and only trip to the Strip during that weekend. Four of us (The Dave flew back to SoCal earlier that day, allegedly for law school finals, but more likely to avoid the career-killing taint of being seen with us at the concert) hopped a cab in front of the ElCo and motored up to Mandalay Bay. The helpful Romanian cabbie informed us the Strip - from Mandalay Bay to the Stratosphere - runs 6.2 miles. I helpfully said, "Ten kilometers?" almost causing the guy to stroke out from excitement: "Da! Da! Ten kilometre!" We disembarked before he could hold forth on why Nicolae Ceausescu was so misunderstood.

Like all of the Strip casinos, Mandalay is ridiculously huge. We wandered aimlessly for a good half hour, backtracking at least once, before coming across a place to eat. The restaurant was called Raffles or Nipples or some such. The important thing was the food - specifically, that they had some, and the cranky server who would've given Flo Castleberry a run for her money in Waitress Thunderdome. Our behavior probably didn't help matters.

But then, somebody had to impress all the 16-year old girls sitting nearby. Amazingly, I may be uncooler now than I was 20 years ago.

After downing what felt suspiciously like a last meal for the condemned, we returned to the casino proper. Of the innumerable differences between the opulent Mandalay Bay and the pungent ElCo, three sprang immediately to mind:

1) There are no "high roller" rooms in the ElCo. We saw $1000 minimum bet tables, and a few that must have been higher than that, cordoned off to separate the gamers from the reeking masses.

2) The pit bosses actually look Mobbed up. In contrast, we had a "boss" at Fitzgerald's that was a dead ringer for my kindly Aunt Pat.

3) The cocktail waitresses were uniformly younger than 35 years of age. And all appear to have been selected for other, more...pronounced reasons.

We watched The Pregnant God make a quick $150 at the $25 blackjack table, then decided it was time to join the rapidly growing line snaking through the casino and leading to the Events Center.

It's funny, the only other time I'd been to a concert where you had to queue up in another venue in order to get to the arena was in 1990, when Basshole and I saw Jane's Addiction at the Bronco Bowl in Dallas. The non-concert portion of the Bronco Bowl was an amusement center, with batting cages and an honest-to-Harold II indoor archery range. That assemblage of Goths and alterna-whatsits wending its way through a center of family friendly Texas fun was signficantly more out of place than this one, as one of the few places a slew of trannies, queens, and Posh wannabes won't stick out like a sore thumb is Las Vegas.

So once again, we found ourselves quite possibly the only straight guys in the audience without kids in tow. The bulk of the crowd, however, consisted of mothers and daughters. Recall that a lot of these kids were tweens when the Spice Girls were at their peak. Now, ten years on, they're in their early 20s. Combine that with parents who aren't about to send their precious blossoms to Sin City unattended, and you get scads of moms and daughters in attendance, all trying to out-skank each other. It was a nigh unending parade of scantily-clad femininity, and I am equal parts chagrined and relieved to report that I was much more interested in the mothers. It seems the closer I get to 40, the more all women under the age of 30 look 16 to me. Case in point, these two young ladies who had the misfortune to sit next to us:

The show started a mere hour late, but since there wasn't an opening act (and ready access to beer) this wasn't that big a deal. Still, for a supposedly "sold-out" show, there were quite a few empty seats:

But the presence of Tom Cruise and David Beckham more than made up for it. Honest.

Finally, around 9 PM, the lights went down. Say what you want about the Spice Girls' music, but they put an energetic show.

There's the last photo any of us took that even vaguely looked like it was taken at a concert.

I don't remember a setlist, and I'm happy to say I didn't bother to write it down. They opened with "Spice Up Your Life," making their entrance in appropriately updated costumes:

I bet somebody they wouldn't play longer than 90 minutes, and I was right. Not to say their catalog is a bit lacking, but easily a fourth of the songs were covers, including Geri singing "It's Raining Men" and Mel B doing an...arresting version of "Are You Gonna Go My Way," in which she flogged a member of the audience. There were also several dance numbers, which gave the Girls time to complete their half-dozen costume changes. They also closed with a 'reprise' of "Spice Up Your Life."

And while I freely admit to being a Geri devotee at the outset, I believe I've been won over by the reliably curvy Mel B:

TPG - about whom I'm reluctant to talk shit, since he blew a good chunk of his blackjack winnings buying me $7 beers - insists that he's forever a Posh man. My response? Leather pants shouldn't sag in the ass. Victoria Beckham's skeletonization was only enhanced by the Jumbotron-magnified glow from her spray-on tan. I know now who Hollywood can call when they remake Boris Karloff's The Mummy.

All too soon, it was over. The Girls had two more shows to play in the coming days, but we weary four were left to slouch back to Fremont. Frankly, it was a relief. The Strip is nice to visit - one should certainly experience the opulence of the Belagio and the Wynn and enjoy the newly ribald pirate show in front of Treasure Island - but I think I'll always be more comfortable downtown. Less image conscious, more relaxed, and you can't buy these bad boys anywhere but Fremont:

Cujo's a little shy when he's sober. Hence the bars.

Up next: Dénouement

Vegas '07 - Part III

"I like elves fucking."

Friday dawned clear and windy. At least, I assume it did. It was clear and windy when we finally rolled out of bed around noon, anyway.

The first Vegas morning is generally pretty benign. Your system has yet to be overcome by the steady diet of toxins and fatigue, so it recovers fairly quickly from the initial night's excesses. In my case, a couple of aspirin, some Emergen-C, and a quart of Gatorade had me back on relatively steady feet, ready to face the day.

Dining options were limited, unless you want to chance the iffy Fremont casino buffets. We pretty much ducked into the first restaurant we came across, which I vaguely recall being named "Mickey Finnz" or some such. It had a half-assed beach theme, but the grub was acceptable to four losers in varying stages of hangoverdom. We actually lingered there for a couple hours, the better to rehydrate and appreciate the saucy waitress' lowrider jeans.

The Wife always asks me if I had any good conversations whenever I hang out with my friends. My response is invariably "Sure," and then silence. I rarely remember what was discussed, which is usually not that big a deal when the topic of conversation sticks to sports or debating the age-old questions (Ninja vs. pirate? Buck Rogers vs. Manimal?), but I remember Friday's discussion simply because it's the only time I've ever shot a liquid out of my nose from laughter.

It came about innocently enough. We were talking about things like Pandora and other taste aggregators that make movie or book selections for you based on your past interests, and what sort of criteria could be plugged into it. Things like: "seafaring epic" or "strong female protagonist" or "future tech," when TTTWLAM piped up with, "I like elves fucking."

After I'd wiped the coffee from my face and shirt, it was decided to get the hell out of there and do some gambling. We were joined that afternoon by The Thing's old college friends "The Pregnant God" (his chosen nom de blog) and "Beth Wexler" (christened in honor of her African volunteer past). They flew in from the East and West coasts, respectively, to help their old chum bid a sloppy adieu to bachelorhood. There was nothing for it but to seek out some adult entertainment.

More adult than gambling and drinking, I mean.

"You mean you only get one dance at a time?"

I mentioned the disconnect between how Vegas portrays itself and how it actually is in my last entry, using casino accommodations as the primary example. The same lesson could be applied to just about every aspect of the city's existence, however. Especially with regard to its strip clubs.

Honestly though, thanks to the philosophical similarities it's pretty impossible for a strip club not to succeed in Las Vegas. Both the club and the casino are out to extract as much money from you as possible with minimum effort on their part. The casinos ply you with free drinks, the occasional comp, and the remote-yet-tantalizing possibility that the next dollar you drop in a slot machine or plunk into a progressive poker ante might net you six figures. Clubs like Glitter Gulch or Cheetah's play upon the fact that most guys out for a guys' weekend aren't going to have the stones to simply call one of the bazillion escort services available in Vegas, opting instead for the - relatively - insertion-free option. There are many things a man will put up with to see some bared breasts, including enduring Glitter Gulch.

Glitter Gulch (oh, the imagery) is the only actual strip club on Fremont Street. That may sound crazy, but bear in mind that there are none on the actual Strip either (that I know of). Cheetah's is on Western, for example, while Sapphire on Industrial is probably the closest to the top-line casinos (it's easier to apply out-of-town admission charges when the customer arrives in a cab or limo, after all). GG exploits this to its best advantage, with Jumbotrons advertising its bevy of marginally attractive basket cases who haven't yet succumbed to the horrifying side effects of methamphetamine addiction. Not eager to tack on a $30 cab ride to what was already shaping up to be an expensive Friday night, the six of us ambled over for a little obligatory bachelor party nudity.

$20 cover gets you two drinks and a private mini-stage where you and your compatriots can get a much needed close-up of C-section scars and razor burn. I downed my duo of vodka tonics in about 90 seconds (as well as one of The Dave's Coronas, which he foolishly left unattended while chatting up our first dancer). Things grow a bit hazy at this point, but here are a few highlights from the subsequent few hours.

1. TTTWLAM got a stripper's business card. Her real business card. She was a real estate agent, I believe, and was apparently quite taken with the big lug. I suspect if I'd ever tried to seek out an exotic dancer's true identity, I'd be dragged by bouncer's to the not-so-VIP area and set upon with truncheons. That's probably because he usually has that goofy open persona and I look more like an aging sociopath who got used unkindly in white collar prison.

I mean, could you resist these charms?

2. I gave Cujo (so christened because his normal slobberingly friendly personality tends to give way to haphazard clumsiness and verbal abusiveness under the influence of hydrophobia 20+ beers) $35 for a lap dance. They're normally $25, but the extra tenner gets you into a more secluded room for your entertainment. Of course, the room is "secluded" from the rest of the club by a whopping bead curtain, you're stuck in there with about two dozen other saps, and a surly bouncer watches over the proceedings the whole time. Regardless, he returned some 10 minutes later with a chagrined look on his face:

Cujo: I'm out $100, man.
Pete: What? How did that happen?
Cujo: She charged me for each song.
Pete: ...Uh, yeah. That's what they do.
Cujo: But I thought $35 would get me three songs.
Pete: [feeling an aneurysm coming on] Where in the contiguous 48 states is there a strip club where you can get three dances for the price of one?
Cujo: [Names some dive in the rural fastness of East Texas where he went to college]
Pete: How old are you?

I feel I should point out two things. First, Cujo is over 30. Second, this isn't the first time he's made poor financial decisions in a gentlemen's club. At his own bachelor party in New Orleans, which I also attended, he had to be forcibly prevented from verbally agreeing to some VIP-room deal that would've cost us around $3000. In all fairness to him, he dutifully related the story to his wife later that evening. Her response: "You're a fucking idiot."

3. $8.75 for a beer meant yours truly left Glitter Gulch significantly more sober than when he entered.

More gambling followed. The Dave and I enjoyed watching a young fellow solidify his gangsta cred by loudly bellowing for his $2 in change from McDonald's, TPG whizzed off the balcony, and TTTWLAM and Cujo narrowly averted grievous thoracic trauma simply by the savvy and ninja-like brandishing of several Gatorade bottles.

Next up: the Spice Girls. Finally.

Vegas '07 - Part II

"Crackton! Next stop: Crackton!

Vegas doesn't lack for accommodations. Except, as it turns out, on rodeo weekend. We were scrambling for lodgings on less than two months notice, and while we were planning on staying downtown anyway, none of us were prepared for the unique charms of the El Cortez.

Better writers than myself have discussed the dichotomy between the public face of Las Vegas and the seamy reality, and if you've ever been there yourself, you get that in the first 30 minutes on the ground. Your surly cabby drives you past the 100-ft neon billboards advertising Cirque du Soleil's "Mystere" and Carrot Top at the Luxor (no shit) on I-15, where you get a tantalizing glimpse of the places like the Bellagio and the Palms, where people who can afford to ante more than $2.50 for Caribbean poker tend to stay, until you make the exit onto S. Las Vegas Blvd and get that first whiff of the real Vegas, an aroma reminiscent of desperation layered over abject failure.

The ElCo occupied a unique space, however. It's downtown, like Fitzgerald's and the Four Queens (two other places I've stayed), but just barely. Situated at Fremont and 6th, it is literally the last hotel/casino before the charming neighborhood we referred to all weekend as Crackton, where all-day buffets give way to discount hourly rates and wizened 20-something broads refer to passers-by as "Daddy" (as Cujo discovered on his daily forays for Gatoratde). Put it this way: if Fremont Street is the lower intestine of Vegas' alimentary canal, then the El Cortez is the spincter. Here's the view from outside our 5th floor room:

"Where the wave broke, and rolled back."

The ElCo was also where we met The Dave, the only one of those aforementioned grad school friends I still keep in touch with (and this in spite of his being an Oakland Raiders fan). He's been with me on all but two of my Vegas trips, including the time we drove from Houston to San Diego in his antiquated, un-air conditioned Ford Probe in the summer of '98. But that's a tale for another time.

We spent an hour or so shooting the shit in the ElCo's luxurious casino. No picture can do it justice, but trust me when I say it had the highest concentration of gamblers lugging oxygen tanks or tooling about on their Rascals that I have ever seen.

Not pictured: the multiple Elizabeth Taylor slot machines.

Impressed as we were by our $30 a night hotel, we were eager to head back up Fremont and hit a casino where the grim specter of Death didn't haunt our every echoing step. And so, after depositing our bags in our room (and trying not imagine the place under an ultraviolet light), we made our way up to the main drag.

The Greatest American Hero

We gambled some at Fitzgerald's and the new -and-improved Golden Nugget ("Now With 40% Fewer Suicides!"). I soured quickly on blackjack while TTTWLAM went up and down at the game in a dizzying display that would become emblematic of the weekend. I burned through about $100 in fairly short order, so rather than risk blowing my entire budget the first few hours - and less than enchanted with the slow drink service at Fitz's, I made a few runs back and forth between the casino and a gift store next door. 24 oz. beers could be had for $1.25, along with other, more outstanding items one could only find in Vegas.

For instance, if you were asked to name two of our nation's greatest icons, who would you choose? One might very well be one of our founding fathers; an inventor and statesman whom many credit with discovering electricity. Another, an orphan from the streets of New York City, who undergoes a remarkable metamorphosis after getting bitten by a radioactive arachnid.

Now imagine you were some sort of mad scientist and could combine the two. The result might very well look like this:

This t-shirt is so "full of win," as the kids say, I can't stand it. The head (and, presumably, brain) of Ben Franklin on Spider-Man's body. Spider-Ben would be nigh unstoppable. And his webbing? Money, motherfucker!

We were hypnotized by this shirt...with good reason, I might add. I have TTTWLAM to thank for surreptitiously buying this for me, because the shaky cell phone pics I took of it in the store didn't quite come out. It's also worth mentioning that the smallest size available was XXXL, though I'm not sure why.

That was the high point of the first night, as we eventually staggered back to the ElCo (TTTWLAM and Cujo a little later, thanks to the latter's desire for $1.25 pizza and blatant ignorance of his surroundings) and collapsed around 4 AM.

Next up: The Girls of Glitter Gulch and Spice, Spice, Baby.

Vegas '07 - Part I

Profit.

Don't "curse, smoke, or gamble." Dude sure knows how to pick his spots.

My first trip to Las Vegas was in 1997. I went with a bunch (okay, three) of my grad school friends (we'd all graduated a year earlier), we stayed at the Luxor, and of all the subsequent trips I've made - six as of last weekend - it's still the only time I returned "up," netting about $250. It probably had something to do with the fiendish nature of craps, which can fool a novice into thinking hitting a hard six twice in one roll is a common occurrence.

Truth be told, I hadn't anticipated returning again for some time. At least, not until my income topped $500,000 a year. Vegas can be a mite pricey, which is fine if other expenses in your life don't have you sweating that $25 double-down, like mine do. I'm not cut out to be a high-roller, I guess, because once I go down about $100 I clam up and lurk around my friends who are playing, muttering encouragement while cajoling free drinks out of the unfortunately costumed waitress. Circumstances changed, however, thanks to a confluence of events believed by most of the world's top scienticians to be statistically incapable of ever taking place. The first, mentioned here previously, was the wholly unlikely Spice Girls tour. I know how hard it is for most of us to believe that five singers as devoted to their music as Posh, Scary, Sporty, Ginger, and Baby would stoop to something so base as a "reunion" tour, but pictures don't lie:

Question their artistic integrity at your peril.

The second world-shattering event is the impending marriage of The Thing That Walks Like a Man. Some of you out there are probably having difficulty wrapping your heads around the idea that a (live) woman would enter into a legally binding union with such a person without the aid of firearms or near-lethal amounts of prescription medication, but I have met the young lady in question and can assure you their marriage will rival that of Tom Green and Drew Barrymore in longevity, if not fluid spillage.

Being Spice Girls "fans" from way back, and knowing that Vegas was one of their few North American stops, there was little choice but to secure overpriced tickets and airfare and plan TTTWLAM's last barbaric yawp of bachelorhood. We flew out Thursday night with a third traveling companion - dubbed "Cujo" for reasons that will become apparent later on - and 375ML of Tito's vodka smuggled aboard the airplane in a plastic flask (my ready excuse, if searched, was to claim I didn't realize vodka was a liquid).

The Proof (price obscured to preserve ticketholder dignity)

Hillary is the Anti-Christ

The flight, like most of the "to Las Vegas" variety, was barely tolerable. We had the usual assortment of reprobates: the Wannabe High-Rollers - usually rocking the "Turtle from Entourage" ensemble; the Girls Weekend Out-ers - who have forgotten (in the 20 years since college) how readily their screeching drunken voices send others fleeing their presence; and the Unfortunates - a handful of families and couples stuck on the plane until its final destination, somewhere in Calfiornia.

Curiously, nobody else seemed to be going to the concert.

I'm normally an unindicted co-consiprator in Vegas-related tomfoolery, but this flight was particularly irritating. The cackling hens behind us were bad enough (even drunk they were discussing home decorating and kitchenware), albeit more loudly than usual, but they were mere amateurs compared to the guy sitting in front of me, whom I'll unaffectionately refer to as "Big Tex."

Clad in pleated Wranglers, a khaki chambray shirt, boots of indeterminate origin, and topped off with a white Resistol hat, Big Tex certainly didn't appear any different than the few dozen or so other folks heading to the National Finals Rodeo (coincidentally taking place in LV that same weekend), except he was several orders of magnitude drunker than anyone else. And he was sitting directly in front of me. I've catalogued a few of his more egregious offenses:

1. Yelling "Put the spurs to her!" and "Yee-ha!" at various intervals while we were experiencing turbulence.

2. Attempting to engage the college-aged guy next to him, who just happened to be black, in a political discussion. He opened with thoughtful commentary about Barack Obama which actually included the terms "articulate" and "well-spoken," then claimed he had evidence that Hillary Clinton was, in fact, the antichrist.

3. Using the expression "Git R Done" on several non-consecutive occasions. Without irony.

4. Wearing one of those cowboy wallets that sticks a third of the way out of your rear pocket. I have nothing against such wallets, except when they're embossed with a frigging cross and worn by someone who loudly berates flight attendants and stumbles down the aisle during multiple trips to the bathroom.

TTTWLAM commented that Big Tex was the reason everybody else in America hates Texans. I countered that he was the reason everybody in the world hates Americans.

Three hours and change later, we touched down. Being men, and unsavory ones at that, none of us has checked any bags for our four night stay. We navigated the labyrinthine taxi line, secured transportation, and by 10 PM were headed downtown.

Next up: The Dave and (El) Cortez the Killer

"This is the greatest injustice in the history of the world!"

Reasonable people can disagree about most things, but I hope we can all come together around the proposition that Joe Francis is the 21st century equivalent of Nelson Mandela:

The smiling founder of the Girls Gone Wild video empire stands shoulder to shoulder with President Bush, the White House in the background, in a series of online advertisements running on newspaper Web sites from Pensacola to Tallahassee.

Joe Francis, 34, engineered the ad campaign to gain support from any audience that will listen to his twisted legal story, which began in Panama City Beach in 2003 and now has him in a Nevada jail cell.

"Marketing is what I do best," Francis told The Associated Press in a telephone interview.

Francis, who makes at least $29 million a year from his videos of young women baring their breasts and in other sexually provocative situations, says he's now in a marketing fight for his own freedom.

"I have been vilified," he said.

He said he has been treated like a terrorist and likens himself to an enemy combatant in legal filings. He says that is why he chose to feature a picture of himself in the ads taken during a 2004 White House visit - a campaign donor's perk.

I'm no marketing expert - like Francis - but it seems that referring to oneself as an "enemy combatant" when you haven't actually done any...combatting...might not be the best way to drum up sympathy for your cause

Francis, who became famous in the late 1990s after he came up with the Girls Gone Wild slogan and began filming spring break debauchery, has been in jail since April when he was cited for contempt after yelling at attorneys during mediation in a federal lawsuit brought by women who were underaged when his production company filmed them in 2003.

That lawsuit has since been settled, but Francis' bond was revoked on criminal charges related to the 2003 filming when he was charged with having contraband - $700 and prescription anti-anxiety medication - in the Bay County jail.

Federal officials then extradited him to Nevada to face tax evasion charges.

Francis could bond out of jail on the federal charges, but would face extradition back to Florida to face trial on four felony charges related to using minors in a sexual performances and two misdemeanor prostitution charges. The charges are all that remain in an original 73-count indictment in the 2003 Spring Break filming.

Francis would rather stay in jail in Nevada than return to Florida.

A cunning strategy, until you remember how they got Al Capone. That's what happens when you start pinging on the Feds' sonar, though.

In a prosecutorial misconduct motion, which [lawyer Roy] Black filed Tuesday, Francis asks his case be dismissed and alleges Bay County officials have a vendetta against him dating to 2003 when he successfully sued Panama City Beach for First Amendment violations after the city threatened to ban him from filming Spring Break.
[...]
Francis says his legal fight is about more than his own freedom, it's about bringing freedom to the people of Bay County.

"I want them to rise up against the good old boys," he said. "I filed a lawsuit standing up for my First Amendment rights and these people came after me. I believe I was set up."

Even if Francis' resolves legal case, he has other legal fights ahead.

A former sales representative of his Mantra Films Inc. and Girls Gone Wild filed a sexual harassment lawsuit against his companies and him in July.

The federal indictment handed up in April in Nevada alleges his companies - Mantra Films Inc. and its marketing arm, Sands Media Inc. - claimed more than $20 million in false deductions on the companies' 2002 and 2003 corporate income tax returns.

The indictment also charges that Francis used offshore bank accounts and entities purportedly owned by others to conceal income he earned during the same time.

This, along with all the money, pretty well illustrates the disconnect between middle-class shmucks like myself and gazillionaires like Francis. Here's a guy who amassed a vast fortune by doing little more than convincing drunk women to flash their goodies on film - which most anybody else would enjoy for a while before insulating themselves against charges like he's facing now by hiring nothing but attractive coeds to do the camera work while spending the bulk of their time in a king-sized hot tub filled with Cristal and Pop Rocks. This whole story, however, is a testament to the guy's delusional megalomania.

Or maybe I'm wrong, and the discontented masses of Panama City are just waiting for a firebrand like Francis to incite them to rise up and defend their right to see boozy barely legal teens degrade themselves on tape.

Francis also is charged with misdemeanor sexual battery in Southern California for allegedly groping an 18-year-old woman at a birthday party in Hollywood.

And then there's that.

"Nothin' cracks a turtle like Leon Uris."

Every so often, you see a headline that completely eliminates the need to read the article itself. For example:

Kid Rock jailed in Georgia waffle house brawl

But what the hell, I read it anyway:

The rocker, whose real name is Robert Ritchie, and five members of his entourage were charged with simple battery after the predawn fight with a man police identified as Harlen Akins. The fracas erupted as Kid Rock and his crew pulled up at the Waffle House restaurant about 5:15 a.m. after a gig at The Tabernacle in Atlanta.

Akins, 39, got into a shouting match with a female friend who was accompanying Kid Rock's posse and then got into a physical fight, police said.

Akins allegedly broke a window at the restaurant and suffered cuts from flying glass that required treatment at a local hospital.

I was going to make some snide comment about how Harlen/Harlan/Harland must surely be a Deep South name, and was going to rely on some extensive internet research to confirm this:

Harlan Ellison - Born in Cleveland, OH
Harland Williams - Born in Toronto, Ontario
Col. (Harland) Sanders - Born in Henryville, IN
Russell B. Harlan (cinematographer for such movies as Blackboard Jungle, Rio Bravo, and To Kill a Mockingbird) - Born in Los Angeles, CA

So much for that.

"You've answered our prayers in Hollywood."

"Jigglin' titties. Who would've thunk of it?"

What is it with these Jugs?
Fashioned after a lifelike set of woman's breasts, Jingle Jugsâ„¢, when activated, begin to move in rhythmic motion to the song, "Titties & Beer" by Capitol Records success Rodney Carrington.

The Jingle Jugsâ„¢ make a perfect gag gift. They're a must have in the game room or in the bar. Put 'em in your home office or garage and liven up your workspace. Put a new top on 'em to match the season. Mount 'em next to your trophies in the game room - after all, it's the Trophy Rack You've Always Wanted! Leave 'em on "Motion Detect Mode" and startle visitors when they jiggle and dance to "Titties & Beer." The opportunities for laughter and fun are endless with Jingle Jugs!

The Jugs are manufactured with high quality components. You can either install batteries in them or use the included AC Adapter. Jingle Jugs are easily mountable on the wall or you can use the included stand to put them on a flat surface, like the Thanksgiving table centerpiece.

While I contest the assertions of "endless" entertainment potential, I certainly wouldn't walk out on a Thanksgiving dinner where these were prominently displayed, if only because of the assumed likelihood of someone driving an ATV into the river later that night, or one of the kids accidentally shooting Dad in the ass. I guess this is for the family that found "Billy Bass" too upmarket and sophisticated.

And only one size? Is there nothing in this country that caters to fans of large breasts?

____ like a beast

I have learned, through no fault of my own, that K-Y has a new "personal lubricant" out. It goes by the name of "Intrigue," retails for twice what the normal brand lists for, and has quite the ad campaign behind it. For example, here's how they describe the bottle:

The curves, at once sensual and ergonomically satisfying, reach a crescendo in a cap that has been artfully crafted to ease dispense of the contents. In the glow of candlelight, the white metallic sheen makes the bottle luminous.

That's the second reference to "metallic sheen," by the way.

The best part comes from the commercial, which sadly isn't available online. It shows a couple in various stages of undress and intimacy as a clock ticks off the hours at the bottom of the screen. Once we get to 3 AM, a single line reads, "Like there's no tomorrow."

While there's little ambiguity to what they're suggesting we should do like there's no tomorrow, I find it amusing to insert other verbs in there. "Spoon," for example, or "tie flies."

Balls to the wall

Chris provides a timely update to my entry on the encroaching horror of truck nuts:

A foolish politician with nothing better to do has introduced legislation to ban novelty truck testicles. Doran says

Maryland Delegate LeRoy E. Myers Jr. has filed legislation to ban the display of those oh-so-chic Truck Nuts and "anatomically correct" human or animal genitalia from the back of pick-up trucks.

From the WaPo story:

"People are making a joke out of it," Myers said yesterday. "But I think it's a pretty serious problem. You have body parts hanging from the hitches of cars. We've crossed a line."

I guess Myers, now that he's taken such a brave stance against body parts, will be introducing a bill to ban people from strapping deer corpses to their hoods. That oughta fly with the hunting crowd.

"Then he'll tell us about his second terrible lapse into homo-sin-uality."

"Burton will also tell us about his most recent lapse, and the one he has planned for August, which should take him to Rio De Janeiro."

One of four ministers who oversaw three weeks of intensive counseling for the Rev. Ted Haggard said the disgraced minister emerged convinced that he is ''completely heterosexual.''

Haggard also said his sexual contact with men was limited to the former male prostitute who came forward with sexual allegations, the Rev. Tim Ralph of Larkspur told The Denver Post for a story in Tuesday's edition.

''He is completely heterosexual,'' Ralph said. ''That is something he discovered. It was the acting-out situations where things took place. It wasn't a constant thing.''

Remind me to try this angle next time I'm in Vegas: "Honey, my sexual contact was limited to the one stripper who came back to my room from the Cheetah Club. I remain convinced I am completely faithful."

They'd never find my corpse.

As for Haggard, this is actually a pretty grim situation. The guy is so deep in denial I honestly can't see it ending anywhere but at the end of the rope. How big of a loss to humanity as a whole that'd be is…arguable.

I guess.

Haggard resigned as president of the National Association of Evangelicals last year after allegations of sexual misconduct surfaced. He was also forced out from the 14,000 New Life Church that he founded years ago in his basement after Jones alleged Haggard paid him for sex and sometimes used methamphetamine when they were together. Haggard, who is married, has publicly admitted to ''sexual immorality."

Haggard said in an e-mail Sunday, his first communication in three months to church members, that he and his wife, Gayle, plan to pursue master's degrees in psychology. The e-mail said the family hasn't decided where to move but that they were considering Missouri and Iowa.

Another oversight board member, the Rev. Mike Ware of Westminster, said the group recommended the move out of town and the Haggards agreed.

''This is a good place for Ted,'' Ware said. ''It's hard to heal in Colorado Springs right now. It's like an open wound. He needs to get somewhere he can get the wound healed.''

Translated: "He needs to get somewhere the hell out of Colorado Springs so we can start removing his name from all NLC-related materials and avoid those awkward instances when we bump into him at Gerland's."

Ted, I hear the Bay Area's nice. And we have some lovely areas around Montrose right here in Houston. Either would be perfect for convalescing from your so-called (self-inflicted) "wound."

"Nice sack, man."

I hate people.

Spent a good chunk of yesterday afternoon in Houston traffic. Ten or fifteen minutes of which were spent behind a guy sporting a pair of these dangling from his Ford F-150:

I won't go into the fuckheadedness inherent in not only purchasing, but taking the time to install, a pair of "truck balls." More obnoxious than the "peeing Calvin," more grotesque than the suction cup Garfield, "truck balls" are one of the more glaring signs that civilization has teetered too far over the cliff to be pulled back.

Anyway, when I finally passed the douchebag in question, I noticed he was black. A black guy...driving a pickup with a pair of truck balls. A pair of Caucasian truck balls.

I'd weep for the future if I still had any hope for it.

"Now that’s a danish. Where'd you get it?"
"I stole it from Kent Brockman."
"Great. Uh, he didn't touch it, did he?"

Here in Houston we have cameras to catch you running a red light, but nothing besides the tired old cop with his radar gun to deter speeders. Luckily, those clever Danes have shown us the way (NSFW):

Truly, speeding is for boobs.

(via MetaFilter)

My Cup Runneth Over, v.17

Quick heads-up: the episode of Cheaters where Joey Greco gets stabbed is airing on G4 right now.

You know you want to.

Foley? Foley?

Anyone?

If there were an Academy Award for Hypocrisy, the surefire favorite for 2006 would be the Democratic Party. Just two recent items make the decision a virtual certainty:

The Representative Foley "scandal" is really worthy of a whole book on hypocrisy. On the one hand, we have a poor misguided Republican man who had a romantic thing for young boys. He sent them suggestive e-mail. I agree, that's not great. On the other hand, we have a Democratic party that worships ( not likes, WORSHIPS ) a man named Bill Clinton who did not send suggestive e-mails as far as we know, but who had a barely legal intern give him oral sex kneeling under his desk in the Oval Office while he talked on the phone to a Congressional Committee Chairman, took great pleasure in putting a cigar in her orifice and then smelling it and tasting it, and having her fellate him when in the sacred seat of power of the world's leading Republic. And the Democrats cheer themselves hoarse for him. His wife has a great shot at being our next President.

"Barely legal?" Monica Lewinski was 21 years old, which this third-rate Wink Martindale seems to have forgotten, and it's something more than a stone's throw from "not at all legal," like - say - a 16-year old. And Foley is "misguided?" Misguided implies the dude thought he was not IM'ing with an underage boy, when in fact his multiple references to "stiff wood" and "spirting in a towel" while the kid mentions his mom yelling in the background would appear to give lie to this.

On top of that, references to so-called sacred seats of power would ring less hollow coming from someone who didn't work for the goddamned Nixon administration.

But it's the Democrats who are hypocrites, because one of them had an extramarital affair (something no Republican could ever be accused of) and his wife may end up running for President. There's a relevant comparison.

We have a Republican man in Congress who sent e-mails to teenage boys asking them what they were wearing,

And asking them how long their cocks were. And asking them to describe how they masturbate. And asking where they throw the towel when they're done masturbating.

Just saying.

and an entire party, the Democrats, whose primary constituency, besides the teachers' unions, is homosexual men and lesbian women. I hope it won't come as a surprise to anyone that a big part of male homosexual behavior is interest in young boys. (Take a look at anyone renting Endless Summer next time you are at the video store.)

So it follows that a big part of male heterosexual behavior is interest in young girls? Like, pre-legal girls? I question whether this is a line of thought Stein wants to see all the way to its end.

And thanks Ben, I had no idea my interest in surfing documentaries made my gay. Not that you have a problem with it, because some of your best friends are gay, right?

Don't get me wrong. My very best friend is gay. I have many gay friends and they are great people. But how the Democrats, the party of gays, can be coming down this hard on a MC who's gay is simply beyond belief. One of my top, favorite congressmen, Barney Frank, is openly gay. Might he say a word in defense of his fellow gay MC right about now? Hmm, I thought not.

Frank isn't a pedophile, for fuck's sake. By this reasoning we should be asking Stein why he didn't leap to fellow Jew Roman Polanski's defense when he was convincted of statutory rape.

Second, let's look at George Allen. Now, he's a bad guy because he has a Confederate flag. Let's get it straight. To millions of our fellow citizens, this flag has zero to do with racism. It is entirely about respect for a time of unbelievable horror in our society, The Civil War, and respect for men who fought so brilliantly for a cause that was unquestionably -- by decent standards -- a bad cause. Moreover, the stars and bars are a beautiful design and show nothing whatsoever about a person's views about non-whites. No one has suggested that George Allen did anything racist or anti-black in his work in the Senate or as Governor. For him to be judged by what historical relics he owns is pure thought crime.

Allen isn't a bad guy because he owns a Confederate flag. He's a bad guy because he voted against funding for teen pregnancy education and contraceptives and voted yes on the "partial-birth" ban. He's a bad guy because he voted against same-sex marriage. He's a bad guy because he voted against increasing tax deductions for college tuition. He's a bad guy because he blindly supports the PATRIOT Act. He's a bad guy because he supported harsher drug sentencing, opposed reducing oil usage, and supported limits on medical liability lawsuits.

For owning (and proudly displaying) a Confederate flag, Allen is merely an ignorant asshole.

But Stein is right about one thing, this is hardly a scandal. Compared to the Bush Adminstration's blatant subversion of the Constitution in prosecuting an illegal war and surveilling its citizens while using its ties to the religious right to turn us into a fundamentalist feifdom, sending sexually explicit e-mails and IMs to children seems like stealing pens from the office supply room.

Not that I'd be especially proud of that fact.

Some of us take pledges to remain abstinent from sexual intercourse in high school

Some of us have abstinence thrust upon us...

Rather than painfully revisit which of these categories yours truly falls into, I'll simply refer you to this article (via Texas Law Chick):

NEW YORK (Reuters Health) - Teenagers who take pledges to remain virgins until marriage are likely to deny having taken the pledge if they later become sexually active. Conversely, those who were sexual active before taking the pledge frequency deny their sexual history, according to new study findings.

These findings imply that virginity pledgers often provide unreliable data, making assessment of abstinence-based sex education programs unreliable. In addition, these teens may also underestimate their risk of exposure to sexually transmitted diseases.

"Teenagers do not report their past sexual activity accurately, with virginity pledgers giving more inaccurate reports of their past sexual activity," study author Janet Rosenbaum, of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts, told Reuters Health.

Wow...teenagers are liars, and the self-righteous are often hypocrites. And to think I never would have figured this out if not for the diligent researchers at Harvard.

Consequently, rather than rely on self-reports, "studies of virginity pledges must focus on outcomes where we know we can get good information, such as medical STD tests," she added.

Previous research shows that survey respondents tend to answer questions about sexual activity according to their current beliefs, particularly if their current attitudes conflict with their past behaviors. Survey respondents may also underreport or overreport their health risk behavior.

Don't worry kids, older people do this to. Only we call it "discussing your sexual history with your fiancee," and the results are roughly as accurate.

Like a rock

The act of fornicating in the back (or front, preferably without bucket seats) seat of an automobile is as American as morbid obesity and jingoistic military posturing. It's one of our more widely acknowledged rites of passage, even if urban sprawl and a ballooning security infrastructure has eliminated many of the out-of-the-way spots teens used to be able to use to satisfy their carnal urges. Further, it has a more nostalgic tinge to it than current fads like "death lists" and posting pictures of yourself smoking weed on MySpace.

How do I know all this? Why, because popular music has told me so. Artists of all genres are known for their heavy reliance on cliche, and the concept of nailing your high school sweetie in a car parked behind a grain silo has been a staple in songwriting for over 40 years. Further, it has romantic connotations lacking in such adolescent situational equivalents as getting a hand job in a dollar theater or hastily consummating your relationship on the floor of a bathroom during a post-football game party, for some reason.

But don't take my word for it, check out this comprehensive list:

"When You Close Your Eyes" - Night Ranger

I remember when we learned about love in the back of a Chevrolet."

Really says it all, I think. One assumes they're referring to the physical act of love and not, say, the gospels of Matthew versus the Old Testament.

"Night Moves" - Bob Seger

Out past the cornfields where the woods got heavy
Out in the back seat of my '60 Chevy
Workin' on mysteries without any clues
Workin' on our night moves

There's your argument for sex education, right there: "workin' on mysteries without any clues?" Might as well register the poor couple at Babies R' Us right now.

"Love is a Ball" - Trick Pony

Love is a Chevy, a '67 Chevy
Sittin' in the back seat, breathin' hot and heavy

To be fair, they may have just been riding to work and the air conditioning was broken.

"Chevy Van" - Sammy Johns

'Cause like a princess she was layin' there
Moonlight dancin' off her hair
She woke up and took me by the hand
We made love in my Chevy van

At least it was a van, for crying out loud. These other horny kids fumbling around in back seats don't ever seem to give a thought to their partner's lumbar comfort.

"The Ballad of Desiree" - The Shackshakers

And in the back seat of a black Chevy
they made love by the river's levy

As with Seger's cornfields, I maintain the average American would have a difficult time finding a levy by which to get busy.

"F.I.N.E.*" - Aerosmith

Your lips smackin', patty whackin' walkin' the street
I got a rag top chevy, now i'm back on my feet
I get and e.m.h.o* woody when i sitin the seat
'cause i'm ready, so ready, yeah

"E.M.H.O." stands for "Early Morning Hard-On," in case you were wondering.

They got sooo much better when they quit drugs.

"Renegade" - Tim McGraw

I got a Chevy with a big back seat
Climb on in and take a chance on me

A chance? A chance you aren't a serial murderer? A chance you aren't syphillitc? A chance there's any hair growing under that hat?

"Oldie but Goodie" - Insane Clown Posse

I got big dick for you hoes to lick
I don't trick bitch but take ya bank and split
Beyonce that's why I'm fucking Kelly
In the backseat of a Chevy, after Nelly

I'd comment more on this, but by merely including it I'm running the risk of another Juggalo infestation.

"Somewhere Down the Crazy River" - Robbie Robertson

Take a picture of this
The fields are empty, abandoned '59 Chevy
Laying in the back seat listening to Little Willie John
Yea, that's when time stood still

We had abandoned cars around where I grew up as well. All fine places for romance, provided you don't mind rotting upholstery and rats biting you on the ass.

"Had to Clown" - T-Rock

In the 91 chevy sitting heavy smoking dank
Perimetric in the dash so I know the ho
Think she getting drink but she ain't think she can but she cant

We've come a long way when a '91 Chevy is something to brag about, although I confess I have no idea what half the words in this song mean.

"69 Chevy" - The Robert Ross Band

My 69 Chevy
I just "love" the way she run
I'm gonna call up my baby
The three of us will have some fun

Oh, I get it..."69" Chevy. If I read this right, the car and his baby are going to "assume the position" while he watches, and that's pretty hot.

"Position of Power" - 50 Cent

My mom turn in her grave if I married a white chick
But baby'll suck the chrome off the Chevy and shit

Admittedly, I don't know if this really fits in with my theme. The use of Chevrolet in the context of blow jobs has to count for something, though.

"You Ain't No Angel" - Saxon

You're coming on strong, you're coming on heavy
Wanna mess with the boys in the back of the Chevy?
Let's take a ride, be my back seat lover
You taste so good, you're just like sugar

This is almost, but not quite, as appetizing an invitation as Tim McGraw's. I'd take him up on it, but only if the "boys" he's referring to are the mighty Tygers of Pan Tang.

"I Go Back" - Kenny Chesney

I go back to a two-toned short bed Chevy
Drivin my first love out to the levy

Okay, so not a lot of words in English rhyme with "Chevy:" bevy, heavy...elevy. Whatever, I blame Don McLean.

"Chevy Nova" - The Great Crusades

Now in the back seat of a Chevy Nova
Ballerina slippers and a cowboy hat

Uhhh.

"How Bizarre" - OMC

Brother Pele's in the back, sweet Zina's in the front
Cruisin' down the freeway in the hot, hot sun
Suddenly red-blue lights flash us from behind
Loud voice booming, "Please step out onto the line"
Pele preaches words of comfort, Zina just hides her eyes
Policeman taps his shades, "Is that a Chevy '69?"

And again: "69." Bravo.

"You Win My Love" - Shania Twain

I'm lookin' for a lover
Who can rev his little engine up
He can have a '55 Chevy
Or a fancy little pick-up truck

What about an Accord? Or a Volvo? A Kia Sportage?

Materialist.

UPDATE: Thanks to my fine commenters, I have more examples...

"Bel Air" - Old 97's

I'm drowning in the back seat of a '61 Bel Air, I got a mouthful of your hair. A handful of skin.

Suggested by Basshole. Initially overlooked because, uh, I didn't realize a Bel Air was a Chevrolet.

"Boomin' Granny" - Beastie Boys

I know I'm younger, and you're much older You look so nice on my Chevy Nova

Also suggested by Basshole. I guess that old Simpsons adage about being hot property just because you have a car holds up. A Nova? Yeesh.

"Late Model Love" - The Bobs

Charlie walked away, leaving his Chevy behind I drove it til the fuel pump froze, then I started dating again... I ran into a man who had a diesel Mercedes Sensible but not real fast, a model that you'd expect to last

I have to admit, this song makes me a little uncomfortable. Probably because I suspect, as the song says, I've already got too much slop on my shocks. Thanks to Blurker Gone Bad for the heads-up.

Ron also correctly chastised me for not including any Springsteen. I'm not really sure how that happened, but I blame Bush.

"Racing in the Streets" - Bruce Springsteen

I got a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396 Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot Outside the Seven-Eleven store

True story: the first time I heard this song was a cover by Queen drummer Roger Taylor from his solo album Strange Frontier. That was also the first time I heard Dylan's "Masters of War."

By the time I get to Arizona

Scottsdale, AZ has a new restaurant, with a deliciously "hilarious" name (via Seadogs and the AZ Tribune, though I can't find a direct link):

The name of a new restaurant in Scottsdale is stirring up some trouble. The Las Vegas-based Pink Taco Mexican Restaurant is scheduled to open its second location in downtown Scottsdale in June.

Nearly half a dozen people in the upscale city recently expressed their objection to the name, claiming it's a derogatory slang term for a portion of the female anatomy.

In late April, the city received four e-mails, three of which bore no names, objecting to the restaurant's name.

One of those e-mails stated: "The City of Scottsdale has a very fine reputation around the world. Let's keep the standards high. Let's let what plays in Vegas stay in Vegas."

Scottsdale's reputation, like that of most affluent suburban communities, suffers from its embrace of white-boy gangster wannabes and excessive materialism (c.f. the works of Jim Mahfood and the recently released R.V.). The New York Times described it as "The Beverly Hills of the Desert," which I guess was intended as a compliment.

If Houstonians have to put up with similarly droll names for bars and restaurants (the inimitable "Fumducks" and "Richard Head's" being the only ones I can recall right now) Scottsdale can survive The Pink Taco.

And "I Survived the Pink Taco" would make a great t-shirt.

"I have misplaced my pants."

Finally:

It's hard to say what No Pants Day commemorates other than simply the freedom associated with not wearing pants.

Participants are urged to show up for work or play in modest boxer shorts or other types of underwear, such as bloomers, slips or briefs.

But whatever you do, don't wear pants, and wearing skirts, dresses or kilts doesn't count.

Apparently the holiday is popular mainly with college students, and it is especially big at the University of Texas in Austin. The holiday has a Web site in Austin at www.nopantsday.com.

Rarely have I been as proud of my Longhorn brethren as I am today. And as a ceaseless lobbyist for "Pantless Fridays" in the corporate world, I see this as a crucial first step in removing the tyranny of trousers in our workplaces.

"He prefers the company of men."
"Who doesn't?"

For reasons I won't go into here, I find myself visiting our local high school on a daily basis. And since I realize adolescent males are among the most homophobic beings on the planet outside of closeted rednecks and fundamentalists, I've come to realize these kids need correction on a couple of matters.

1. First of all, the pants around the knees shit has got to stop. Understand something: I grew up in the '80s, which - next to the '70s - were the height of unfortunate fashion trends. Shoulder pads, parachute pants, and camouflage were the rule of the day. But, and here's the key, all of it was functional. You could still run from danger without having to hitch your trousers up every third step. Our clothes may have been ugly, but none of it would get you killed.

And that's not even my point. I'm led to believe that the reason this trend started in the first place was because pimply dorks whose most heinous transgression to date was setting mailbox fires wanted to emulate prison folk. Seems you guys were informed that baggy pants were all the rage in the joint, because they took your belt from you. Well, I have it on authority from two unrelated sources (both of whom have been in prison, natch) that this is not the case. Apparently the only guys wearing pants that sag to their calves in stir are the ones who...how do I put this delicately...don't mind deliveries to the rear. The "hard" cons you so want to emulate keep their dungarees cinched tight at the waist.

2. I'm not sure where you got the idea that "teabagging" was something normal straight men do to each other, but let me assure you this isn't the case. I'm speaking specifically to the young man I saw run up to a supposed friend and straddle his shoulder while rubbing his crotch against the other kid's neck (all while yelling "teabag!" of course). If this is a manifestation of your own latent sexual desires, knock yourself out, but don't be surprised when someone you play that trick on in the future responds with an elbow to the solar plexus.

We put the spring in Spring Break

This might be a little later for some of you ladies, but the AMA has some staistics on the dangers dotting the landscape during spring break:

You wouldn't have had any problems with me and my friends in college. Poverty forced us to go camping, and while I can't speak for everybody, I know most of us weren't ambulatory enough to even get out of a hammock to relieve ourselves.

Wouldn't have gotten much of a tan, however.

Beats acting

I guess no one pointed out how well Demi Moore's career has been doing since her own nude cover shoot:

With award season still under way, Scarlett Johansson and Keira Knightley are exchanging ballgowns for birthday suits.

Under the artful eye of photographer Annie Leibovitz, the starlets posed nude for the cover of Vanity Fair magazine's yearly Hollywood issue, to be released Wednesday.

Fashion superstar Tom Ford also appears on the cover photo, though he stuck with a more traditional suit — one of black fabric.

Funny, Johansson won't pose for pictorials in any of the "lad mags," but I guess as long as it's Annie Leibovitz shooting your bare ass, it's okay.

Doesn't Maxim let you wear pants?

A love of the arts

I present this link without further elaboration. I expect some APCB regulars will understand why, and leave cryptic messages in the Comments section. For the rest of you, bear with me.

"Ze goggles, they do nothing."

Via BoingBoing comes this delightful Flickr gallery of people's reactions to being exposed to Goatse for the the first time:

For the last couple of years, my friend Laszlo Toth has been conducting a cruel experiment. He shows his friends Goatse and then takes a photo of their reaction.

Want to play along at home? When you Goatse your friends, just tag the photos “firstgoatse” and add it to the “First Goatse” group.

Are you one of the dwindling few who are unaware of the horrors of Goatse.cx? Well, you won't find anything to satisfy your perverse curiosity here, sickos. Go look at the Wikipedia entry, or do a Google image search, if you're honestly confused.

These are a couple of my favorites. First, there's the guy whose world has suddenly collapsed upon itself:

And then a man who has no business being surprised by anything anymore:

You know it's bad if The Hedgehog can still find enough disgust submerged in the dregs of his humanity to wrinkle his nose at it.

"Gabriella's baby shower will be invaded by terrorists, with sexy results."

This just in, patrons of a certain British supermarket chain are out of their minds:

Desperate Housewives actress Eva Longoria has beaten off competition from Jennifer Aniston to be voted the sexiest TV beauty of all time. The 30-year-old Latina, who claims she was the "ugly duckling" of her family growing up, was honoured for her sexy performance as Gabrielle Solis in the hit US drama. Aniston, who played Friends's Rachel Green for ten years, came second in the survey by British supermarket Sainsbury's, followed by Sex And The City's Kim Cattrall as man-eating Samantha Jones in third place

The Top Five Sexiest Female TV Stars Of All-Time are:
1. Eva Longoria - Desperate Housewives
2. Jennifer Aniston - Friends
3. Kim Cattrall - Sex And The City
4. Pamela Anderson - Baywatch
5. Sarah Michelle Gellar - Buffy The Vampire Slayer

Seems a bit, uh, heavy on the last few years, which is the nature of such things. More likely, patrons were provided with a list of 20 or so and made their picks from those. But if you're going to make a list of the [something something] "of all time," you might want to put a little more thought into it.

It's also entirely possible some characters that ought to be no-brainers never made it across the Atlantic. And what were the parameters? Are shows that didn't last a full season allowed? How about cartoons? Recurring guest roles? These are important questions when compiling an arbitrary and meaningless ranking like this.

Having said that, none of those listed above even make my top 10, which I will now share with all of you (warning: skewed heavily entirely towards brunettes)[1].

10. Lauren Graham (Gilmore Girls) - Those eyes, those legs, that improbably witty dialogue. I'll sit through a hundred fights with your mother if you'll just slag Brennon's Foreigner t-shirt one more time.

9. Yvonne Craig (Batman) - Nothing less than the ultimate librarian fantasy girl: Barbara Gordon was a buttoned down, glasses-wearing, hair-in-a-bun type who spent her nights wearing spandex and a mask and beating the shit out of criminals. People pay top dollar for that kind of treatment nowadays. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention her turn as the green-skinned Marta on the "Whom Gods Destroy" episode of Star Trek.

8. Maren Jensen (Battlestar Galactica) - I always favored the no-nonsense warrior Athena over the blonde space trollop Cassiopeia. I wholeheartedly supported her actions when she steam purged Starbuck and that hussy in the launch tube, even as I realized later it probably would have been fatal. If anything, it only heightened my devotion.

7. Dawn Wells (Gilligan's Island) - Speaking of no-brainers. If there were any justice in this crazy mixed-up world, ultra-short denim shorts would be referred to as "Mary Anns" instead of "Daisy Dukes."

6. Pam Grier (The L Word) - I'm cheating with this one. I've never seen The L Word and really don't care to. I'm content with it allowing me to include Ms. Grier, who has given me jungle fever since my first exposure to Coffy in a college film class.

5. Diana Rigg (The Avengers) - Not only is Emma Peel a "sexier" character than any of those listed above, she could kick all of their asses as well. Yes, Buffy's too.

4. Julie Newmar (Batman) - They sure carbonated a lot of hormones on this show. Newmar is the one and only Catwoman (no offense to Eartha Kitt). Why she ever bothered toying with the concave-chested Batman, "Pure West" or not, was beyond me.

3. Carla Gugino (Karen Sisco) - She's been in a lot of crap, and also in this unfortunately short-lived TV show. I guess ABC pulled it because, unlike Alias' Sydney Bristo, Sisco managed to get her job done fully clothed.

2. Lynda Carter (Wonder Woman) - As documented here previously, Wonder Woman may have been the first female TV character I noticed in "that way." And I never understood why this was the one TV show my dad would watch with me (aside from The Three Stooges) until several years later.

1. Jaclyn Smith (Charlie's Angels) - Before "Tastes great, less filling," before the Cola Wars, before Dale Jr. vs. Tony Stewart...there was Farrah vs. Jaclyn (poor Kate Jackson never stood a chance). Long and arduous were the schoolyard debates, and how different our respective fates turned out to be. Farrah fans can usually be found slumped in their broken down recliners, watching American Gladiator reruns and struggling over their beer guts to clean their toenails with a used toothpick, while those who preferred Jaclyn Smith are universally renowned for their roguish good looks, chiseled physiques, and Herculean sexual prowess.

[1] But who the hell knows Julie Newmar's real hair color?

Got to be a lover

At APCB, love not only means having to say you're sorry, but having to publicly embarrass yourself by posting futile attempts to grab the attention of someone who - let's face it - probably wasn't that interested in the first place.

More love lost from the Austin Chronicle:

1) 7-2-04 DIZZY ROOSTER. You: beautiful brunette in black with friends. Me: Red shirt with bachelor party. Couldn't take my eyes off of you all night.

Translation: You: unapproachable babe surrounded by snarling bitch-queens. Me: coward who, unable to make a move in spite of the false courage bestowed by alcohol and several of my hooting buddies, contented myself with undressing you with my eyes for three hours.

2) 7/22 RHONDA AT Chili Cold Blood show. You rocked my world until the break of dawn. Where did you go?

Probably to meet someone not prone to dropping Sir Mix-A-Lot lyrics into their conversations.

3) BLUE VOLVO STATION wagon with "Austin" sticker on bumper: Shopping at Wheatsville with a Central Market bag!? Tried to catch your eye with no luck. Me: Interested.

I thought shopping at Wheatsville with a Central Market bag was a stoning offense (not that kind) in Austin. It's a trap, Volvo. He's only "interested" in turning you over to the co-op's Ministry of Organic Reeducation.

4) HALCYON, AUGUST 9. You: In smooth, black fedora, cute tummy and a bottle opener (I think) in your pants. Me: Tall guy, dark, curly hair, blue shirt. Let's compare fedoras.

Fedoras? This must be some new variation on the "come up and see my etchings" line that I'm not familiar with. Oh, to be single again.

5) YOU: BLONDE TRANSSEXUAL in Whole Foods downtown, around midday a lot. I know what you are, please give this tall guy a chance to be yours. I like you!

"I like you" should probably have come before "I know what you are." Just saying.

6) MOJO'S LOST FEDORA Super-Nai-Man cracked the case. Hat at Mojos.

Again with the fedoras. Is dressing like Philip Marlowe the new trend in Austin?

"For Christ's sake, once during the war I visited a prostitute, and my life has been a living hell ever since."

Bad move, brother:

Jude Law and Sienna Miller have been seen in public together for the first time since the Cold Mountain actor confessing to having an affair with his children's nanny last month. The couple, who have been meeting in private in a bid to salvage their engagement, took a walk across London's Hampstead Heath yesterday in a public show of unity. A friend of Miller's tells British newspaper The Sun, "Sienna hasn't totally forgiven Jude but she is doing her best to work things out with him. She really loves him and is devastated by his betrayal. He has been doing everything in his power to convince her he made a stupid mistake and it won't happen again."

What's the point? Here's a hint, Jude: she's never going to forgive you. Oh, she may say she forgives you, after months and possibly years of groveling, sleeping on the couch, and enduring countless (perfectly justifiable) screeds about your no good, cheating ass. But she never will. Somewhere, in the recesses of her consciousness, the fact that you nailed the nanny on a pool table will always be lurking about. It'll be on the tip of her tongue every time you have an argument, and never far from her mind the next time you do a location shoot with Scarlett Johansson.

It would be bad enough if they weren't celebrities, but if Law and Miller do end up together, every article about them from now until the day they die - even if it happens while blasting across the alkali flats in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated rocketcar - will contain a footnote about Law boning the babysitter back in 'Aught-Five.

Even yours truly still gets grief from The Wife about shit I did ten years ago. I'm not saying it's undeserved (heh), but catching hell for drunken displays of verbal idiocy is one thing, I can't imagine the fallout from getting caught with another woman.

Assuming I survived the incident at all, that is.

"How about...Anal Antics?"
"Anal Antics. Yes, it will appeal to the intellectuals."

It's hip to be square?

Under a banner proclaiming, "We raise the bar. We push the limits. We make things happen, and Hollywood will never be the same," a group calling themselves the Abstinence Clearinghouse (Rolling Stone last month described them as "The Young and the Sexless") said Wednesday that it will bring together 1,000 supporters in Hollywood next week to urge filmmakers to produce sex-free movies. The Sioux Falls, SD-based group said that it plans to hold its ninth Abstinence Leadership Conference from August 4-6 with the theme "Lights, Camera, NO Action."

In a world (sorry, but that's really the best way to begin this) where a naked woman on screen earns a picture an "R" rating while showing that same woman getting gutshot and bleeding out would only get you a "PG-13," it sounds to me like these kids need to fiind a more productive way of sublimating their throbbing biological urges.

Let me put it another way: Hollywood is already yours, you little assholes. A realistic representation of intercourse is an almost guaranteed NC-17 (The Dreamers, Young Adam), while the only way to get an R for violence is by showing heads exploding or loops of intestines spilling from someone's abdominal cavity (thank George A. Romero for that, at least). Bare breasts used to only warrant a PG (mmmm...Clash of the Titans), and if we wanted to, we could blame self-righteous twerps like you for that no longer being the case.

Except I know the truth: the whole "abstinence" angle is a smokescreen, a front. Bullshit, in other words. Look, I knew plenty of people who weren't having sex in my younger days. It wasn't always voluntary, by any means, but there were certainly people who elected to keep their pants on. But after looking at your web site and the agenda for your Hollywood conference (with such luminaries as Rebecca Hagelin and featuring thrilling seminars like "Every Man's Battle" and "Laugh Your Way to a Better Marriage"), it's obvious that no right-thinking human being would want to have sex with a bunch of fatheaded, sanctimonious halfwits like you.

You guys have really hit upon a great scam: distract the public from your humiliating lack of sexual experience and the distaste with which you're viewed by most of the population (1000 supporters? In nine years?) by acting like it's your choice. Nice try. Now, everybody into the hot tub.